


Body Shot

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Nantaimori, Sticky Sex, Tribadism, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Probably misses the kink meme prompt by a bit, but....it's porn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You know,” Dai Atlas said, sternly, “the only reason we are not subjecting you to the grand rite for this is because you’re needed for the ritual.”

Wing bowed his helm, contrite.  “I saved a life, Dai Atlas,” he said, softly.

“You left the city. You brought back a Decepticon.”

The words landed like lashes across the white jet’s shoulders.  “Our job is to protect those in need. He was in need.”

“The citizens who depend on us are in greater need, Wing.”  Axe spoke up from the corner. He sounded uncomfortable: Axe liked the world neat and tidy. Unlike Dai Atlas, he could see the muddle of grey where right and wrong collided. He just didn’t want to.

“What matters is the transgression of our laws,” Dai Atlas said, severely. “But I am not utterly without mercy.” He moved closer, tipping Wing’s face up to his with one hand, fixing the gold gaze in his own. “You will perform the ritual.”  Wing nodded against his palm. “You will take care of this…Drift.” Dai Atlas said the word as though it filled his mouth with grit.

Another nod.

“If you are found impure for the ritual,” Dai Atlas said, severely, “We will visit your punishment upon your Drift, before exiling him.”

“Dai Atlas!”  Axe spoke up, pushing off the wall he’d been leaning on.

“Axe.” Dai Atlas frowned. “If Wing believes that this Decepticon is redeemable, if he has any iota of self control, they can both prove it. It’s a simple enough challenge isn’t it?” There was a curve of his frown that seemed almost sardonic.  He knew—they all knew—that Wing, as it was, struggled with chastity. 

And Axe knew it too, shooting the Circle’s leader a disapproving frown. But he didn’t disapprove enough to speak up. Because, dislike it as he might he couldn’t deny that there was some worth to it. If they were to accept this newcomer, the least he could do is pass a test of self-control. 

Dai Atlas nodded, knowing he’d won the point. “You’ll be outfitted with a repulsor ring, of course, to remind you. But you are on your honor.”

“Honor.” Wing nodded, his optics glistening, unreadable.

Dai Atlas dropped down, tucking his face between Wing’s shoulder and helm. “No penetration. Of either of you.”  He held tight to Wing’s chin armor until he felt the nod.  Wing understood. He knew what depended on it. If he cared about his little Decepticon, he’d—for once—show some restraint.

[***]

Deadlock scowled as Wing showed him the small recharge berth Wing had had set up against one wall of his quarters. “Supposed to be less like a prison this way, huh?”

“Drift…,” Wing began, the silver wingpanels shifting on his back.  Drift. The name that wasn’t his, the name that wasn’t _him_.

Deadlock tossed his head, flopping onto the berth. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this anything other than what it is.”  The mouth set, hard, the same expression that had stared down Turmoil dozens of times.

“And what is it, Drift?”  The jet settled one hip onto the berth, palm flat. 

“Captivity.”

Wing sighed, finding a patient smile. “It’s not, Drift. It’s a chance, while you heal.”

“Heal.” Deadlock fingered one of the weldscars, mouth curling into a sneer, directed at himself. Stupid, Deadlock, stupid. Letting yourself be caught like that, off-guard.  And this is the penalty. Worse, they expected him to be grateful. 

“Do you want to talk?” Wing offered, gently, the palm sliding on the berth toward him, in an open gesture.

“Nothing to talk about,” Deadlock said, shimmying flatter on his back, frowning at the ceiling.  He could feel Wing hesitate next to him, trying to reach out, wanting some sort of connection—some way, Deadlock thought, to get his hooks in. Right. Not going to happen.

After a long moment, Wing moved, standing with that elegance with which he seemed to do everything, that drew Deadlock’s gaze, all unwilling.  “If you need anything,”  Wing said, quietly, catching his gaze with his own, “Please ask.”

Deadlock gave a sullen snort, rolling onto his side, turning his back on the jet.  If only it actually made him disappear.

[***]

Cycles passed, Deadlock drifting in and out of recharge, sometimes easily, sometimes jerking awake, one hand reaching to his hip for a gun that was no longer there. He stole glances—he stole everything, it seemed—from under lowered lids, at Wing, who seemed engrossed in a datapad, shifting from sitting crosslegged on his berth to lying flat on his belly, wingpanels spread.  Deadlock felt small pangs of envy, that the jet could be so…entertained, while he lay here bored. 

It did not improve his mood.

After a while, forever and a half, Deadlock thought, Wing put the datapad aside, rising to move to the front room. He heard bustling sounds, a door opening, and a soft exchange of voices. He strained his audio, waiting for the noises to settle, his whole thought on that datapad, so casually discarded on the berth.  He could…almost…just about…reach it.  He’d never been so curious for anything in his life.

He leaned over a little bit farther, reaching his arm over the gap between Wing’s berth and his own.

“Drift?”

Deadlock startled, body flinching with force enough to tumble him forward off the berth, with a crashing clatter of limbs. He couldn’t even scrape up a decent excuse, caught so brazenly in the act.  He pushed to his feet, gathering every iota of outrage around him. “What.”

Wing looked at the berth, then back at Deadlock for a long moment, then seemed to give up the enterprise. “There’s food, if you’re hungry.” He gestured behind him.

Deadlock gave a shrug, as if he didn’t care, even while his tanks gave a ping of distress. He’d been taxing his autorepair hard, even before arriving here. 

Wing half-turned, then looked over his shoulder. “It’s something to do, at least.” 

Frag, Deadlock thought, watching the jet slip back through the doorway, knowing Wing had seen right through him. He looked at the datapad, knowing somehow that Wing wouldn’t come in for a while. But. Food.

Deadlock threw up his hands in frustrated surrender, moving to the door.

Wing’s face lit up, almost as if he was actually delighted to see Deadlock in the doorway, from where he sat at a table with a small array of little boxes.  Wing had set up two bowls, one across from him, and as Deadlock approached, the jet’s smile seemed tinged with victory. 

Deadlock flung himself into the chair across from Wing, staring down at the bowl and all the other little…things around it. “What’s this.”

Wing laughed, a peal of pure happiness. “Food. As promised.”

“I’ve seen food before.” This wasn’t it.

“Drift, if you mean those…rations we took off you, this is the same. Just, well, a little better.”

Better. Right.  Decepticon combat rats were the best in the war. At least…they were good enough for him. He scowled down at the bowl, feeling a heat rise from it. Fine, so they heated it. Still just energon. 

Wing watched him for a moment, helm canted, before he took his own bowl, holding it carefully with both hands, and tipping a small sip of it in his mouth.  Obviously showing Deadlock how to do it, and Deadlock resented his ignorance, and Wing’s easy demonstration, but he took his own bowl up, anyway.  Fine. He’d try their stupid too fancy food, heated and in a stupid bowl, as if being squeezed from a C-rat packet wasn’t good enough for them.

The energon was more than just warmed: it had something in it, tart and potent that seemed to fizz over his glossa, velvety and rich.  He could have drunk the whole bowl, right there, but Wing started talking. Again. Jet was always doing the last thing Deadlock wanted him to do.

“And these,” Wing was saying, holding up a plate with colored shapes on it, “gelled energon.”  He picked one out, holding it toward Deadlock.  Deadlock narrowed his optics, newly blue, but took the candy, with a quick flick of his hand. 

It was also bordering on too much: rich and potent, sweet and floral, flavors he didn’t even have words for. He couldn’t mask the sudden hum of his engines, even when he caught the edge of Wing’s smile.

Frag. Even Wing’s smile seemed tolerable now, the rich energon effervescing through his system like liquid life.  Everything seemed…almost good, and Wing’s natural grace, the sleek lines of his armor and bright optics didn’t seem half so offensive. In fact, they seemed desirable, and as he looked at the jet as Wing leaned to pluck a candy for himself, he had to fight a fantasy of sliding a hand over those folded flightpanels, his mouth almost able to conjure a kiss.

He shook his head, tossing it off, or trying to, but his mind wouldn’t entirely shake the idea: conquest, taking Wing, claiming him.  They might make him prisoner, but he could still take what he wanted.  Revolt from within.  They were afraid he’d ruin their precious city? They were right to be afraid.

The thought burned in him, fueled by the rich energon, gone to his head, doubly intoxicating. He wanted Wing, the way he’d never wanted anything before, with all the blunt earnestness of his being.  And there was nothing really stopping him.

Except Wing, looking at him with a sort of brilliant trust. And as much as Deadlock chafed under it, as much as he resented it, wanted to crush it flat underneath his palm, it stayed him.  He slugged down the rest of his energon, the way a soldier drinks, fast and neat, catching Wing’s raised supraorbital ridge.

“What.”

A quick shake of the head. “Nothing. It’s just…it’s very strong.”

“I can handle it.”

Another curious look, before Wing subsided. “All right.”

Damn straight, all right, Deadlock thought, snatching at another of the gels for good measure. Don’t tell me what I can’t handle.

He watched as Wing finished in little dainty sips, feeling the energon course through him, warm and rich, lulling him to something like comfort.  Wing laid his bowl aside, resting his chin on the back of one hand, elbow on the table. “So,” Wing said. “Would you like to do something?”

Something. A bit of a predator’s smile curved over Deadlock’s mouth. He rose, leaning across the table, one hand reaching to catch Wing by the helm, by the swooping flares of his audials, optics intent on that soft, mobile mouth, burning for a kiss. He’d show Wing something.

But then the whole room seemed to lurch, his video feed swinging wildly, and then everything became an arc of color, smearing together as he fell, the rush of pure energon, too rich and too fast, too much for his systems.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn. :P I guess I misjudged: the nantaimori will be in the next bit. I am the worst at planning.

His mood was not much better when he woke up, cycles later, back on the berth. The room was dark: his chrono telling him it was local midnight. He moved, barely registering the groan as his own until it stopped when he stopped moving.

“Drift?”  The sound of releasing pistons, and the sudden flare of gold optics in the darkness.

He hesitated, and dropped into silence, head throbbing. The frag was in that energon?  The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with the jet right now.

“Drift,” the voice again, soft, and he heard the susurrus slither of metal on berth. “I put a datapad on the side of the berth. In case you get bored.”

He could have shriveled, knowing that it meant that Wing had seen him reaching for the pad, and had known what it meant.  His optics were two narrow blue lines in the darkness. “Not bored.” He was bored. Agonizingly so. But he refused to admit it. 

The gold optics tilted. “I mean, should you get bored,” he said, lightly.

Deadlock grunted, shuttering his optics. Whatever. 

“I hope you’re feeling better,” Wing said, his voice slipping into a whisper.

“I’m fine,” Deadlock muttered, nettled, as though the jet’s concern chafed.

A concerned chirr. 

Deadlock’s engines gave a frustrated whine in response. He gave a disgruntled flop, tearing his gaze away from the elegant shadow, the gold optics. He still remembered the burn of desire from before, and part of him wanted to launch himself off the berth, grinding over Wing’s body, mouth hungry on the jet’s, bathing in the surprise-widened golden glow of his optics.  

He wanted it, wanted to make that happen. He wanted it so badly his palms ached, his interface equipment almost burning with hunger.  Wing’s kiss would taste like that sweet energon gel, velvety and melting. 

Deadlock felt his ventilations rattle through him. He could feel Wing—or imagined he did—some outer envelope of his EM field, a warm, faint pulse against his left side as he lay, despite the distance between them.

Weakness, he berated himself.  Weakness to want so much, so badly. Wing was a temptation he didn’t want, a distraction he didn’t need.

He needed to get back to the war, before this ruined him.

[***]

A mech didn’t survive the gutters by being a heavy sleeper. Deadlock swung awake, sensing something near him, one hand balled into a fist, vocalizer crackling with a roar.

Only to find Wing, leaping nimbly back, optics wide with surprise, somehow managing not to spill a cup of some chartreuse liquid. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, before Wing stretched out the cup. “It’s a chemical tisane. It will help.”

“I don’t need help,” Deadlock barked, even as his tanks seemed to spin and lurch, as though just catching up to his burst of motion. The queasiness must have shown on his face: Wing placed the cup in his hands.  Deadlock felt the light, firm pressure of the other’s fingers, closing over his own, the touch sending little tendrils of something like exhilaration up his arms.

He reached forward, hand catching the audial flare, pulling Wing closer and down.  Deadlock felt the mouthplates, like brushed satin against his, tremble, warm, and then part. The kiss tasted cool and sweet, the mouth open and yielding, everything he had imagined it was.  He heard a soft sound, maybe his, maybe Wing’s, a yearning little note as their glossas met.

Wing pulled away, slowly, lipplates lingering in a last contact, and they stared at each other again, only the energy between them was changed, suddenly, electric and tingling with something almost like wonder.

“I-I have to go,” Wing said, his voice laden with regret, the kiss still glistening on his mouthplates. His hand moved, like a butterfly’s touch, to Deadlock’s wrist, still holding the warm liquid. “Please. I’ll be back as soon as….” He didn’t need to finish the sentence and truth was, Deadlock wasn’t even listening, captivated in the jet’s scent, in the fuzz of his EM, and the liquid melody of his voice.  “Please,” Wing repeated, and Deadlock found himself nodding, even though he had no idea what he was agreeing to.

[***]

Wing could have been gone five kliks and Deadlock would have thought it too long.  He’d drunk the tisane, frowning at the thin taste, before irritably flicking on the datapad. It was better than nothing, he guessed.

He wasn’t used to nothing. On Turmoil’s ship, he always had something to do: a battle to prep for, a battle to analyze, troops to browbeat. They were lazy: they needed him. But now? Nobody needed him and he found the datapad in his fingers, irritable and curious.

Deadlock flicked through the thing’s contents: games, holovids, educational stuff. He grunted, settling on the berth, and finding a query function.

‘Wing’ he typed. Why not find something out about his enemy, right? 

A flicker and then the results popped up in neat categories, one labeled ‘vid: holosparring’. Video. Of Wing. He didn’t hesitate, calling one up with a jab of a finger.

And watched, entranced almost without his volition. He’d seen Wing fight, briefly, on the cliffs, but he hadn’t been able to see anything…like this: the jet’s movement like quicksilver, graceful and fierce.

He played the videos over and over again, watching with new optics each time, studying the lines of each stroke, the coiled force in each step. If Wing were just pretty, Deadlock would have thrust the fatuous attraction aside by now. But there was this side: powerful, skilled, lethal, that drew him.

Deadlock wanted Wing, with a hunger sharp as a blade, that only grew more and more whetted as he waited, watching the videos, his own mouth remembering the kiss, and imagining promise in the jet’s last words.

Wing returned, eventually, to find himself thrust against the wall, Deadlock’s mouth finding his again, with the faultless aim the Decepticon was known for. Wing gave a soft, aroused trill, arching his spinal struts against Deadlock’s chassis, his own hands coming up to Deadlock’s deep spaulders. 

They stood entangled, for a long moment, ventilations eddying together, mouth on mouth, hands scrambling over armor.  Deadlock pulled away, lowering his helm to find Wing’s throat, wedging himself in to nuzzle against the bare cables, his thigh pressing between Wing’s, to grind his pelvic armor against the jet’s.

“Drift,” Wing breathed, his hands on Deadlock’s shoulders turning from pulling to pushing, “please. There’s…something.”

Deadlock felt frustration seethe through him, shoving back. “What.”  His mouth was still parted, glossed with lust. 

“We can’t…there are limitations.”

“Limitations.”

“It’s important, Drift.” 

“What.” 

“This ritual. I must be pure for it.”

“Pure.” He tossed his head, impatient. Why couldn’t people here fraggin’ speak simply? Why did everything have to be some denta-wrenching interrogation?

“Interfacing. I must abstain.”

“Now you tell me?” He couldn’t help the hot hurt in his optics.

“Drift. It’s really important. I can’t.”

The jet’s optics were liquid and gold, little drops of sunlight, like magnets.  Deadlock found himself leaning forward, despite the frustration coursing through his frame. “They don’t have to know.”

“They will know, Drift. They’ll ask.”

“So lie.” Simple enough. Why did they keep making things so complicated?  He dipped his mouth back to Wing’s throat cables, determined not to lose the promise of earlier, nipping and licking at the cables, burying himself in the jet’s plushness.

“I can’t lie to them, Drift.” The words were soft, but adamant, steel under satin.

Deadlock’s mouth ground, as though chewing on the hate that had kept him alive for so long. “Fine.” He shoved the jet away, turning, storming back to the berth room, his hands shaking with the need to break something. 

“Drift.” A hand on his arm, firm, strong and fast.  “I just…I mean we have to be careful.” The gold optics glimmered, almost shy.

No one had ever looked at Deadlock that way, as if fearful of his rejection. Fearful of his violence, yes, and he reveled in that, but this…this was new. “Careful.”

Wing stepped past him, further into the room, drawing him over to his berth. “Careful.” There was a little glint in the optics, not quite mischief, as Wing drew him down on top of him. 

Deadlock couldn’t care about anything, right now, the jet’s body forming a warm, wanting cradle around him.  And maybe this place was making him weak, but it wouldn’t change him. It wouldn’t.

He felt his spike surge under its cover, pressurized and prickling with arousal as his hands explored, at first possessively, then slower, lingering over the edges of the complex shapes.

Wing’s hands moved, for their part, down Deadlock’s frame, fanning little flames of desire, as he gave soft, encouraging whimpers into other’s helm.  Wing’s hand slipped lower, and Deadlock gasped, feeling the jet’s warm hand cupping his interface hatch. He pushed into it, too eager by half.

Wing gave a soft laugh, hand reaching, blind, to open the hatch, fingertips light on the spike cover, coaxing it open, wrapping around the spike as it burst free.

Deadlock had to fight his initial urge to thrust into the hand, rutting against Wing, hissing his half-frustration through gritted dentae.

The jet whimpered, as though the touch of Deadlock’s spike in his hand aroused him, but he twisted away, nimbly enough, when Deadlock’s hand reached down to his interface hatch.

“Drift. I can’t.”

Deadlock snarled, even as Wing’s hand, on his spike, squeezed, circling the tip with his thumb. 

“Please,” Wing said, the word, or maybe the look behind the word, somehow, irritatingly, impossible to resist.

Deadlock had never been known for his self-control: he thrust into the hand, lust and arousal mounting, almost overmastering him. He bent his head forward, resting it on Wing’s shoulder, panting and wanton, his hips sliding over Wing’s, his spike in the tight circle of Wing’s hand, his entire body straining for release.

It came, hard and fast and hot, spilling silver fluid over Wing’s belly, charge crackling against Wing’s palm. 

He wanted more. It wasn’t enough, his own overload. He wanted to watch Wing, wracked with ecstasy, shivering with desire. He wanted to see it, and he wanted to be the cause of it. 

Deadlock slid his hips back, rising on one knee, hand moving to the jet’s interface hatch, pressing the release.

Wing caught his wrist. “Drift. No.” 

Deadlock caught his gaze, his mouth curving into a rare, almost fragile smile. “Trust me.”

Trust me. No one trusted Deadlock, not even Deadlock himself. He hadn’t gotten where he was by trusting anyone, and he didn’t expect anyone to be fool enough to trust him. Trust hadn’t mattered.

Before now.

“Drift…,” a lingering hesitation, asking for some reassurance, even as the hand loosened its grip on his wrist.

Deadlock looked down, the hatch opening, catching sight the seep of lubricant around the dark circle of a repulsor ring against the bright electrum and silver. Wing wanted him. Wanted this.  He felt almost dizzy, like the night before, from the thought. He looked up, the grin slyer, more sure. “I won’t even touch you.”

The optics tilted, curious, as the hand fell away. Deadlock smirked, surging forward, moving one leg to hook over one of Wing’s silver thighs, his own valve with its own repulsor ring, pushing close to Wing’s. 

Wing gave a shivering sigh, feeling the two fields, both repelling the other, fuzzy and dense, press against him.  Deadlock tipped his hips, sliding the valve over Wing’s, feeling the fields pull and twist around each other, his belly sliding in the cooling spill of transfluid, smearing silver between them.

They didn’t meet; they couldn’t, by the laws of magnetism they were pushed away, stronger and stronger the closer they got.

He could feel the same, a powerful, almost fuzzy push, against the ring, sending current spilling over the electromagnet, pushing against the valve, the slick seep of lubricant.

“Ohhhhh,” Wing murmured, a soft push of sound.

Deadlock smirked, moving his hips to trace a long, slow, lazy roll, stirring the compressed field between them. 

Wing’s vents came short and shallow, hands clinging to Deadlock’s shoulders as Deadlock moved, tracing a series of small arcs and circles over Wing, the repulsion fields slowly building charge.

“Drift,” Wing said, but his voice was faint and dreamy, saying the name as though conjuring something, as though just the sound of the name was charged and desirable, as though giving himself over, utterly, to Deadlock’s control.

“Trust me,” Deadlock murmured back, only half-thinking, feeding on Wing’s response—open, wanton, ardent, a sensuality writ large on the jet’s writhing frame. 

Wing arched up, loosing a cry of ecstasy, as the push and pull and press of the charge fields pushed him into overload.  He nearly bumped Deadlock upward, from the cushion of the field’s force between them.  Deadlock’s own need was small, less important than this: watching Wing trembling, his mouth stretched in a blissful shape, his EM field a radiant wave of pulses. Deadlock’s mouth was parted in an echo of Wing’s expression.

Wing collapsed, around him, arms and legs twining through Deadlock’s, pressing him close, tilting up for an ardent kiss that said more than desire, more than a lover’s gratitude, a sort of alchemical contact that changed…everything.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh hey semi-nantaimori. \o/?

Whatever this stupid ritual was, Deadlock thought, it was taking too damn long. Wing had been gone for cycles, and Deadlock could only entertain himself for so long, even with…those thoughts.  He should be finding a way out of the city; he should be using this time to plan an escape, but there was a part of him, the part that had starved for centuries, that whispered one day longer wouldn’t make a difference. One day more of healing, and fueling and, well…Wing.

The door opened, finally, long after the city had cycled to its false night, and Wing entered, his face brightening in a way Deadlock hadn’t seen anyone look at him since Gasket.  It plucked at something in his belly, even as Wing held up a parcel.

“I brought some back,” the jet said. 

“Some what.”

“Food from the ritual.”  Wing moved over to the table to begin untying the string that bound it.

“Ritual. So it’s fraggin’ over now, at least?”

Wing nodded. “It’s over. I wish you could have come.”

“Why.” It sounded stupid.

“You might have enjoyed it. The symbolism, at least.”

“I don’t do symbolism.”

Wing looked up from the table, fighting a laugh. Things had changed between them, after last night, subtle but clear. Deadlock couldn’t figure out what, exactly: he was just as sullen, just as contrary to Wing, but things just seemed…lighter, almost. “You should try it sometime,” Wing said. He held up the packet. “Like now?”

Deadlock eyeballed the parcel. They looked like the candies from before, only, if possible, fancier—the contours dusted with silver powder, the colors translucent and delicate.  “Symbolism.” 

“I’ll show you,” Wing said, with a firm nod, taking Deadlock’s arm, leading him to the back room. Deadlock tried to protest, but it was a token, even by his own estimation. Why would he fight where this was going? Especially when Wing pushed him down onto the berth.

Wing purred, settling onto his knees beside Deadlock, pushing him flat on the berth. Which wasn’t where Deadlock wanted him to be, but…close. He reached to bring Wing closer.

Wing dodged out of his way, almost playfully. “First lesson, lie still.”

“Still.” He frowned, but flattened himself on the berth, grudgingly. He wasn’t going to escape this lesson, and to be honest, Wing seemed a little too eager to show him.  He wasn’t a curious mech but this had his attention. 

Wing gave a pleased nod, reaching into the box and taking out a few of the energon gels and moving to place them on Deadlock’s frame. Deadlock moved to sit up and was stopped by Wing’s hand. “Still,” Wing repeated.

“You’re….” You’re putting food on me.

“I know,” Wing said. He sat back, wiggling on his heels, almost as if he was excited.

Deadlock cycled air, feeling the gels start to melt. It felt…strange. Soft and liquid and not entirely unpleasant, making one or two long trails as it slid over him, succumbing to gravity.

“Normally,” Wing said, “you’d be colder. I take a stratospheric flight first, to cool down, so it doesn’t melt as fast. But.” And then he leaned over, and Deadlock saw the jet’s mouth open, glossa trailing along a line of energon up to the gel, sucking it into his mouth.  Deadlock gasped, rigid under the strange caress.

Wing grinned at him, glossa flicking around his lip plates. “Like that.”

“They…licked you?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds….perverted.” Wing, in a room, cold, covered with candies, getting licked by strangers.

Wing laughed, the sound his usual almost joyful peal. “It’s about life, Drift. Celebrating our existence by honoring the one, every part of him touched, caressed, honored.”

“Every part.”  He did not sound happy. Oh, his mind was going places.

Those places.

He couldn’t shake the image, the thought: Wing, surrounded by mechs, his body their sole and central focus, lithe and responsive, shivering under every touch as they leaned over him with soft mouths, glossas exploring the intricate lines of his armor. He didn’t want to see it—a flare of jealousy, green yellow and sour, shot through him. But at the same time, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, his spike prickling at the thought, pushing upward. Every part, Wing had said.

Wing bent lower, to lick another melting gel off of Deadlock’s hip, his optics sultry and lidded. “Every part. But.” He moved carefully up, to plant a little kiss on Deadlock’s mouth, laughing at the way Deadlock strove upward to follow it. “There are limitations. Mouths only, for one thing.”

Deadlock arced his head upward, managing to nip at Wing’s lipplates. “Can do a lot with a mouth,” he said, knowingly. 

Wing gave a throaty purr, pulling away, tauntingly. “Yes,” he said, planting a kiss just below Deadlock’s chassis, where it met his abdominal join, “one can.”  The head dipped lower, out of Deadlock’s sight under the rise of his chest armor and then Deadlock gasped, feeling the glossa’s warmth on his interface hatch, flicking it open. 

“….talented,” Deadlock groaned, his spike surging upwards. 

“Thank you,” Wing said.  “Now.” He moved, plucking one of the candies off Drift’s thigh, moving it to the head of his spike.  Deadlock gave a hard, uncomfortable sound. It looked stupid, and Wing was going to laugh at it, making fun of him.  His hands curled, and he was just about to roll, disgruntled, off the berth, when Wing caught his gaze with his own optics, lowering his head to have his glossa trace a long, wandering trail up his spike, catching a melting, running droplet from the gel, before closing over the head of the spike. 

Deadlock’s spike leapt in Wing’s mouth, all thoughts of leaving gone, melting just like the sweet energon. The glossa swirled over his spike’s head, sending a pink-silver thrill of pleasure stabbing through him.  Wing pulled away, letting the spike’s head pop from his mouth, his grin positively impish.  “The rules, of course, forbid me from going any further.”

“Frag your rules,” Deadlock said, his hands reaching up for the jet’s arms, curling up for him. 

“Better idea,” Wing said, both palms coming up to Deadlock’s chassis, pushing him back down, one sleek silver thigh sliding over Deadlock’s hips.  Well, that got his attention.

Wing grinned, taking one hand to open his own interface hatch, waiting a beat for Deadlock to look down, and notice that the dark circle of the repulsor ring…was distinctly missing: only a clean, gleaming silver rim.

Deadlock’s hands found Wing’s hips, gaze flicking up to Wing’s face. “That mean we could--?”

“Could?” Wing grinned, rocking forward, sliding his valve, slick with lubricant of his own arousal, along the underside of Deadlock’s spike, pressing it between them, and then stopping, just as his valve covered the spike’s head.  He waited until Deadlock twitched, hands squeezing the hipskirting. “Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIVIA: I now have a scrap of paper with at least three different designs for repulsor rings on it, drawn during a REALLY boring meeting. Hey, whatever it takes to stay sane? 
> 
> One model had a little lithium battery that could be stimulated, a la clitoris. 
> 
> Yeah, it was THAT boring a meeting. ^_^


End file.
